


In Time

by foxwriting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (mostly), Canon Compliant, Eventual Relationships, Gen, Marauders, Marauders' Era, Multi-Era, gen - Freeform, i am not british for which i apologize in advance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 13:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17346356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwriting/pseuds/foxwriting
Summary: 1971. Remus Lupin is a boy with a secret. Peter Pettigrew meets his hero. Sirius Black is not like his family. James Potter has it all figured out. Lily Evans has found a new world. Severus Snape is determined to leave his mark.1991. Remus Lupin is a man without a home. Peter Pettigrew sees a familiar face. Sirius Black knows he is innocent. The house in Godric's Hollow lies empty, gathering words. Severus Snape remembers.This is a story about Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs, Lily Evans Potter, and Severus Snape: who they were in their Hogwarts years, and who they became two decades later.





	1. Prologue: The Witness

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note to reiterate that I'm not British and would like to humbly apologize for the repercussions! Please don't hesitate to point out where I done goofed. In addition, these first few chapters were canon-compliant about five years ago and I'll try to keep editing to bring them (mostly) in line with new information. Except for the Cursed Child, which I pretend does not exist.

 

**March 1965**

  


The Lupins of Lydia Avenue were a very quiet family. If the townspeople of Lynton had been asked about them, they might have taken a moment to place the name, and then given an answer along the lines of, ‘Oh, that young couple at the end of the row? They're decent folk, don’t go out much. They've a little boy, quiet thing he is—what was his name again? Rufus? Russell?’

For their part, the Lupins seemed content living on the outer edge of the community. Their son, whose name happened to be Remus, was likelier to be found playing quietly by himself than running around with the village children. In fact, none of the Lupins were prone to making social advances, but when approached, they proved to be such kind, helpful, ordinary people that no-one could think ill of them, even on the rare occasions their house seemed to attract oddly-dressed people at all hours of the night.

Mr Lupin was rarely seen, off working long hours somewhere unknown. But every Saturday at ten o'clock in the morning, as regular as clockwork, Mrs Lupin walked down to the village with her son to run errands. She was polite to everyone she met, and especially friendly with the greengrocers; old ladies often stopped to fuss over little Remus, who stared at them with solemn brown eyes and clutched his mother's hand tightly. 

So when, one clear Saturday morning in October, Mrs Lupin did not make an appearance on Lynton’s high street, the Lupins inadvertently caused the first disturbance of their quiet existence. It was the greengrocer who, at half past ten, first wondered aloud ‘Where's Mrs Lupin?’

The question spread and at tea-time, a few townspeople had gathered at the little cafe across from the grocery in an unofficial council. Rumours flitted back and forth between friends and neighbours. 

‘Haven’t seen them in days, not even in their yard—’

‘Did you hear that sound the other evening by their house? Like a gunshot—’

‘I heard the Lupin boy was ill. No wonder, he always looked a sickly one—’ 

‘No, it was Mr Lupin,’ said one Mrs Mary Reynolds, with a certainty that caused a hush to settle over the cafe as several gossips turned to look at her. The old woman waited until she had their undivided attention before continuing. ‘I saw him last night, must have been hurrying home from God only knows where he works. Looked a mess, too, couldn’t believe what he was wearing, looked like a cape and robes,’ Mrs Reynolds paused, taking a deep breath and watching her audience’s faces carefully, ‘He was deathly pale, about ready to topple over. He didn’t even notice me, just walked right past, shoving some sort of stick into his pocket, and muttering nonsense—I heard something about wizards in the government.’

‘Finally gone round the bend, I’d wager,’ said the greengrocer’s wife. ‘It’ll be the madhouse for Lupin, mark my words.’ 

A murmur of agreement from a few other women followed this assertion, as the townspeople remembered other robed visitors and nocturnal activities around the Lupin house. Tea-time slipped away, and, as no new information was forthcoming, the group trickled away from the cafe to get on with their lives. Mrs Reynolds stayed longer than anyone, but when her account of her sighting of Mr Lupin had been exaggerated, analyzed, and eventually exhausted, she finished her errands, buying groceries and posting a letter to her nephew.

It was evening, and the sky was turning a deep purple when Mrs Reynolds started down Lydia Avenue. She hesitated at her front path, glanced quickly over her shoulder, and then continued to the next house over, the house at the very end of the row. She let herself in the Lupins’ front gate, glancing suspiciously around the yard. There was a lovely garden, meticulously maintained, with a small vegetable patch and potted lupins—proof that someone had a sense of humour, she thought. Mrs Reynolds approached the front door and had raised her hand to knock when she heard raised voices.

‘Hope, listen. You don’t understand—’

‘What don’t I understand? You said yourself this man doesn’t know where you live. We cannot leave our home because of an empty threat from a man who—’

‘Greyback isn’t a man!’

There was a long, heavy silence. Mrs Reynolds stood silently outside the front door, thoughts of gathering gossip chased away by a deep-seated need to get her nose out of other people’s lives before she learned something truly awful. She turned on her heels and hurried for the safety of her own home.

That night, sleepless despite her best efforts, Mrs Reynolds roused herself from bed and returned downstairs to make a nice cup of tea. It was nearly eleven o’clock and she had just set the kettle on to boil when she heard the scream. It was the undeniably terrified scream of a child, cut off short.

A howl shattered the silence. Mrs Reynolds felt ill. Wolves? There were no wolves in the British Isles... Mrs Reynolds felt cold creep through her veins. She rushed to her door to lock it, but her hand froze on the handle. She was sure it had been a child’s scream...  

Grabbing a heavy iron skillet from her kitchen, Mrs Reynolds ran outside, still in her slippers and nightgown. She was halfway to the Lupins’ house when she heard a man’s shout: ‘ _Remus!_ ’ There was a bang and a burst of light flashed through the gaps in the hedge. Clutching her skillet tightly, Mrs Reynolds headed resolutely for the far side of the Lupins’ back yard. Illuminated in the pale silver glow of the full moon, a man stood over a small, crumpled body. His arm was outstretched, pointing a thin length of wood at a beast of nightmare. Feral eyes glinted from under its matted fur. It snarled in pain, something thick and dark dripping from its fangs. The man yelled a word and the monster howled again, but Mrs Reynolds had dropped her skillet and was already running. She locked herself in her house, drew the curtains, and sat down, shaking, at her table.

Hours later, Mrs Reynolds startled awake in her kitchen to the sound of someone letting themselves in through her front door. The same door that she remembered very distinctly locking the night before. The man walking into her house was so bizarre-looking that her mind went blank for a moment. She stared, taking in his long, purple robes emblazoned with an official-looking patch across the chest pocket, a design of two intertwining ‘M’s.

‘Good evening,’ said the man in a low, solicitous voice. ‘Mrs Reynolds, I presume.’

‘Y-Yes, please, er —do come in,’ Mrs Reynolds replied unnecessarily. The stranger was already making himself quite at home. He pulled out a chair at her table, sitting and gesturing to the chair from which she had just stood up.

‘Please, have a seat.’

Mrs Reynolds sat down. ‘I understand you’ve had quite the fright,’ the man continued, perfectly at ease. ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’ 

Mrs Reynolds would have liked to tell him to get out of her house thank you very much and who did he think he was, but she refrained. It was something about his utter calm and self-assuredness. ‘There—it was the Lupins,’ she said. ‘I—I heard a scream last night, and I ran out to look. I saw—well, I thought I saw Mr Lupin, and he was pointing—well, a stick at what looked like a wolf, but of course I know wolves only live on the Continent, and it all sounds dreadfully silly now that I say it, but, you see, there was a _child_.’

‘There was indeed, and I can assure you the matter is perfectly in hand. Is that all? 

‘Well—yes, but—’

 ‘In that case, there is no need to worry, Mrs Reynolds. None at all.’

 The man reached into the folds of his robes and took out, to Mrs Reynolds’s confusion, a slender wooden wand. He pointed it after her and, as she stared into his eyes, murmured ‘ _Obliviate._ ’

And so it was that when the Lupin family disappeared from Lynton without telling a soul the reason for their departure, Mrs Reynolds knew nothing more about it than anyone else. She knew nothing about the fate of the small boy who lay, broken and bleeding, in a bed in a hidden hospital in London. She knew nothing of the name Fenrir Greyback, a name that was now spreading across the wizarding world as wizards and witches opened their copies of the Daily Prophet. Fenrir Greyback, the ‘savage killer’ who targeted his victims on the full moon. The name was spoken in hushed voices, as if to say it aloud was to summon ill fortune. Whispers of sympathy were heard also, for the unnamed couple in the article, the couple that had lost their son.


	2. A Boy with a Secret

**March 1971**

 

Hillcrest Cottage, in Exmoor, Devon, was a home that had seen better days. Paint was peeling off the old wood and the roof sagged a little bit more whenever it rained. Mould grew under the eaves, and in the corner of the pantry, no matter how many times it was cleaned. Nevertheless, the cottage retained the two qualities that had first attracted its residents several years ago: It was far enough away from the nearest villages that it was rarely disturbed, and it possessed a very sturdy cellar.

The Lupin family had worked hard to make the cottage a good home. Mrs Lupin tended a flower garden out front and a vegetable garden out back, and decorated the mantelpiece with photographs, some of which waved and smiled at whoever walked past them. Somehow, the cottage held together, though money grew tighter with each passing year. Mr Lupin worked long hours at the Ministry, while his wife stayed home, looking after the house, and the Lupins’ son.

Remus Lupin, despite appearances, was not an ordinary boy. He did not go to school, even though he desperately wished he could. This was partly because Remus Lupin was a wizard, and prone to causing strange occurrences, like making the pictures in his mother’s storybooks start moving. But most importantly, at least in the eyes of other wizards, for one night out of every twenty-nine, Remus Lupin was not, strictly speaking, a boy.

If he were like every other eleven-year-old wizarding child, he would be waiting eagerly for the letter that would confirm his acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Instead, he sat at his wooden desk in his little upstairs room, daydreaming about a place where he knew he could not go. A book, Mr Lupin’s old copy of Bathilda Bagshot’s  _ Hogwarts: A History _ , lay open in front of him. He was different: it was a simple fact that Remus had always known. He was different because he had to be locked up every full moon so he couldn’t hurt anyone; but also because, no matter how hard he tried to be kind and well-mannered, he frightened people. 

Remus could not stop himself from staring out his window, watching the sky and trying to convince himself he wasn’t watching for owls. Although he was unable to attend school, either Wizard or Muggle, Remus had received an excellent education. He passed many long days learning writing, arithmetic, and history with his mother, and still more time poring over his father’s spellbooks.

Remus turned away from the window, determined to do something useful. He closed  _ Hogwarts: A History _ and brought it back to his bookshelf, slipping it carefully between  _ A History of Magic  _ by the same author (Mr Lupin’s old textbook. Remus had nicked it one very bored afternoon) and  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard.  _ Though he did not know this, having little experience with other boys his own age, Remus’s alphabetic sorting of his bookshelf by author’s surname was yet another reason he was not an ordinary eleven-year-old. 

Remus left his room and climbed down the narrow staircase. He saw that there were dirty dishes in the sink, so he washed them, then went out to help his mother in the front garden. The gnomes had already been coming back. Neither Remus nor his mother had the heart to throw them very far.

Outside, Mrs Lupin was trying to weed while fending off a gnome that had bitten her apron and was holding on tightly. Remus ran forward and grabbed the gnome’s leg, shaking it until it lost its grip. He swung it round in circles and threw it over the hedge. There was a thump and a muffled exclamation of ‘Bugger!’ 

Remus turned to his mother. ‘He’ll be back soon, I’m afraid.’  

‘Oh, it’s quite all right.’ Mrs Lupin laughed. ‘They’re sweet little creatures for the most part, aren’t they, Remus? When I was a little girl I always wished there were fairies in our garden. Gnomes would’ve been the next best thing.’

‘They might be sweeter if they didn’t know so many bad words,’ Remus said quietly. ‘I don’t suppose it would be possible to teach them any manners.’

Remus and his mother were still gardening an hour later, when Remus noticed a speck in the sky above. It grew until he could make out the shape of an owl carrying a letter. Remus’s stomach flopped. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop a tiny burst of hope. ‘That’s odd,’ Mrs Lupin said, half to herself. ‘We’ve just paid the bills, and Lyall isn’t in touch with his school friends anymore...’

The owl swooped down and landed regally in front of Remus, who momentarily forgot to breathe. This close, he could see elegant green writing on the envelope:

 

_ Mr. R. Lupin _

_ Smallest Upstairs Bedroom _

_ Hillcrest Cottage _

_ Moorlands  _

_ Devonshire  _

 

‘I — they made a mistake,’ Remus said ‘They must have forgotten to take my name off the enrolment list...’

Mrs Lupin gave her son a long, sad look. ‘We’ll wait until your father comes home, and then we’ll see what we can do. Would you like a mug of cocoa?’ Remus shook his head and went back to his room, the letter clutched tightly in his hand. He opened it, sat down on his bed, and stared at the green ink words for a very long time. He read the welcome letter and the list of required supplies, then went back and read them again. And again. Hours later, when his father came home for a supper of potatoes and garden vegetables, Remus had not moved. If anyone had asked, he would have been able to recite every word of the letter from memory.

Remus’s bedroom door creaked open. Mr Lupin sat beside his son on the bed and pried the now-crumpled Hogwarts letter from his son’s hands. He looked at it with a closed expression. ‘Remus...’ he said wearily, ‘you know they must have forgotten to take your name off the enrolment list when I asked them. I’ll have to write back and tell them you can’t attend.’

‘I know. It was a mistake,’ Remus said quietly. 

Remus watched his father write the letter back, then walk down to the village’s Owl Post office to send it. He returned to his book, resolved not to get upset. It was a simple mistake, one anyone could make. His name must have been left on the enrolment list by accident.

Remus had known, for as long as he could remember, that he would never go to Hogwarts. He knew his father had written to the former headmaster, Armando Dippet, after the accident, although Mr Lupin had tried very hard to hide this fact from his son. But Remus was a sharp-eyed child, and though he never let on about this observance around his father, he knew what was said in the reply his father had received from Hogwarts. Dippet had not even written the letter himself. Instead, it had come from the deputy headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. Remus remembered being surprised at how kind Dumbledore had sounded in the letter. He had referred to Remus by his name, had not once called him a creature or a beast, and had sounded sincerely apologetic when he told Mr Lupin that the headmaster would not allow his son to come to Hogwarts.

It was Albus Dumbledore who was the headmaster of Hogwarts now, not Armando Dippet. The thought wormed its way into Remus’s head, feeling an awful lot like hope. Remus squashed it. He was not going to let impossible dreams make him bitter. Hogwarts was a school for wizarding children, and Remus was not even fully human. It was fair that he should not be allowed to attend.

That evening after supper Remus sat in front of the fire poking idly at his old set of gobstones. They were about ready to retire, Remus thought. Gobstones that emitted strange snoring sounds instead of squirting jelly, and tended to inch closer to the warmth of the fire, were not much good for playing with, but Remus was fond of the old game pieces. On the fraying sofa Mrs Lupin sat with a book on gardening, her washing-up finished. Mr Lupin dozed in the old armchair.

Then, in the midst of the Lupin family’s quiet meditation, there was a knock on the door. Mr Lupin woke with a start. Mrs Lupin looked up from her book.

‘It must be one of the neighbours,’ Mrs Lupin said automatically.

‘We haven’t any neighbours,’ replied Mr Lupin grimly and rose to answer the door. Remus stared after him. He heard the door open.

‘Good evening — ’ The pleasant voice was cut off by the sound of the door swinging quickly shut, but then— _ woomph _ . A soft sound of fabric being caught between two hard objects. ‘Lyall Lupin, I presume,’ the voice continued as though no interruption had occurred. ‘I never had the opportunity to teach you, but your professors spoke very highly of you.’ 

‘Go away,’ Mr Lupin said. Remus knew that voice —it was the voice his father made when he was scared and didn’t want anybody to know it. Mrs Lupin moved to back up her husband, leaving her book open on the arm of the sofa. 

‘Please just let us be, sir,’ she said. ‘We aren’t causing anybody any trouble.’ 

‘And I do not wish to trouble you,’ answered the pleasant voice. ‘I received your correspondence, and, as I happened to be in the area, thought I might stop by to address your concerns.’ 

There was a pause, and then Mr Lupin said, to Remus’s shock, ‘Headmaster Dumbledore—’ 

‘Albus will suffice, please,’ Dumbledore answered. ‘It is, of course, your prerogative as parents to withdraw your child’s automatic enrolment at Hogwarts. I understand there was some —trouble—with Headmaster Dippet. A kindly old man, when the mood took him, but perhaps a little backward-thinking on some issues. I disagree on some points with dear Professor Dippet, and I simply wished to ensure that you are able to make an informed decision with regards to your son’s education.’ 

Remus had not heard Dumbledore navigate the blockade he imagined his parents had become, but all of a sudden the Headmaster of Hogwarts was gliding into the Lupins’ sitting room. Remus took a moment to ogle Dumbledore’s lavishly embroidered turquoise robes and impressive beard, then he remembered his manners and scrambled to stand up. Dumbledore held up a hand. ‘Please, don’t let me interrupt your game. I’ve always had a fondness for gobstones.’ Remus sat back down in front of the fireplace, and, to his surprise, Headmaster Dumbledore kneeled down across from him. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, reaching for a purple gobstone. 

‘Not at all, sir,’ Remus forced out, dumbfounded. 

Mr and Mrs Lupin now stood at the doorway to the sitting room, looking even more shocked than Remus felt at the sight of Dumbledore kneeling on the rug, playing Gobstones with their son. Slowly, the couple returned to their seats. 

‘You would be Remus Lupin, I imagine,’ Dumbledore said. He picked up a particularly reluctant gobstone and examined it through the lenses of his half-moon glasses. ‘Albus Dumbledore, at your service.’ 

‘How do you do?’ Remus asked. His next gobstone missed Dumbledore’s by a good arm’s-length.

‘I am quite well,’ Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. ‘Let me ask you this, Remus. In ideal circumstances, setting aside prejudice and any medical difficulties, would you like to attend Hogwarts?’ 

Remus looked up at the Headmaster’s face, looking for a hint as to the correct answer, but Dumbledore’s blue eyes were inscrutable. ‘Yes, sir,’ he finally said. ‘More than anything.’ 

Mr Lupin’s hand fell heavily on Remus’s shoulder, but Dumbledore didn’t seem to notice. ‘I don’t know what sort of twisted amusement you’re looking for, but I won’t allow you to toy with my son’s dreams in my home.’ 

‘Lyall,’ Mrs Lupin said quietly. ‘He isn’t toying.’ 

‘The world is not kind to those who are perceived as different.’ Dumbledore said. Remus didn’t know if he was talking to him or to his father. ‘I know about Remus’s condition. I like to have ears in the...less savoury corners of society. The name and crimes of Fenrir Greyback are known to me.’ 

Remus swallowed. Only once had he heard the name Fenrir Greyback, from his father when he had asked who had bitten him. It wasn’t a conversation Remus liked to remember. When he focused back on the present, he noticed that Dumbledore was watching him, carefully, but not unkindly. ‘You are better than the prejudice you face, Remus. You are free to choose your own future, but I hope that you—and your parents—are willing to hear my offer.’ 

Remus glanced at his father, silent and tense, and then at his mother, who looked deep in thought. ‘This is your choice, love,’ she said. ‘We cannot make it for you, but we will support any choice you make.’ She looked at Dumbledore with steady eyes, though her words were still directed at Remus. ‘I’ll never stop fighting to help you find a place in a world that loves you for who you are.’ 

Fighting the urges to cry and to hug his parents, Remus turned to Headmaster Dumbledore. The gobstones huddled, forgotten, in front of the warmth of the fire. ‘I want to know,’ he said. If you really think I can go to school, I want to know how.’


End file.
